We have the art of Christmas down to a tee. Or should I say tree? (Which, by the way, goes up in the first weekend of December without fail.)
Dee is the Christmas fairy. She cannot get enough. It's her heroin, her nicotine, her catnip. Every year the house is transformed into a Christmas grotto - garlands, Santa figures, snow globes, candles, fairy lights, poinsettia... It was a magical transformation whilst I was a child and now I'm in my mid twenties, it's still pretty special.
In some respects, things haven't changed for this time of year. The house looks the same, the food is always delicious and the family rituals are still going strong. We still have pillow cases filled with goodies to open on Christmas day, we still have smoked salmon and scrambled egg for breakfast, we still watch The Snowman and The Muppet Christmas Carol. A more recent and hilarious addition has been an outing to the Boxing Day races.
Nevertheless, there is a change. It was Brother who decorated the grotto. The pillowcases were filled with things Dee had found around the house. The Muppet Christmas Carol is punctuated by the 'What's happening now's and the 'I've never seen this before's.
There has been a shift in focus - it is no longer about us, it is all about Dee - both a heartwarming and saddening realisation. We are no longer the children. Dee is now the child. The child that needs soothing, spoiling, cuddling, reassuring, reminding, telling off for being greedy. It was a beautiful moment when she went to bed content and happy with the day. Despite the confusion and memory loss, the Christmas fairy lives on.
